


Separation

by fennishjournal (Shimi)



Series: Rites of Passage [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Backstory, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Comfort, Comfort Sex, Crying, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Male Friendship, OT3, POV Bisexual Character, POV Sherlock Holmes, Polyamory, Possessive Sherlock, Post Reichenbach, Post Season 2, Post-Reichenbach, Psychological Drama, Reichenbach Falls, Requited Love, Romance, Siblings, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-07
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-03 05:39:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shimi/pseuds/fennishjournal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Preliminal Rites: Separation from a previous world</p><p> </p><p>After the events of <i>Reichenbach</i> John and Lestrade discover that there are still pockets of light in the world. Sherlock has to realise that he cannot fully control his subconscious or his emotions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> emmadelosnardos, lostgirlslair and vix_all provided helpful feedback and saved me from embarrassing mistakes.
> 
>  
> 
> Note: This part is mostly John/Lestrade but working its way towards Sherlock/Lestrade/John.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is suddenly and horribly certain that he can't leave John to his own devices tonight, not if he doesn't want to have another suicide on his hands.

It takes Greg eight long minutes to get to Barts and the first thing he sees when he jogs down the corridor to the morgue is John Watson sitting very, very still. He is perched on the edge of one of the chairs where family members usually wait to be called in to perform the grisly act of identifying their loved ones and is holding his head in both hands as if he is trying to keep it from exploding. His eyes are screwed shut and he is breathing in a determinedly slow rhythm that tells Greg that John pulled himself out of a fit of hyperventilation only seconds ago. The sight freezes him to the spot for a long moment.

 

 

The whole interminable ride to the hospital, sirens blaring, the PC at the wheel breaking five different traffic laws, Greg had told himself that it wasn't true. That this was just another one of Moriarty's cruel tricks. That he would get there only to find Sherlock Holmes alive and well, rolling his eyes at the needless hysteria. "Seriously, Lestrade, reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated," he would sneer and everything would be alright. Just another mind-game. Just another close call.

 

 

But John is looking at him now, face blank, eyes shuttered, implacable, and Greg has to close his own eyes and breathe for a moment, his throat suddenly tight.

 

After a moment he regains his composure enough to ask, "It is true then? Sherlock....Sherlock Holmes really jumped off a  _ building _ ?" And he realises to his consternation that there is anger as well as incredulity in his voice.

 

John only nods and looks to the side, clearing his throat. "He...I..." John swallows painfully. "He called me. To say goodbye. I saw him jump. I...." His voice cracks and he takes a couple of shaky breaths before visibly composing himself again. "I tried to stop him, to talk him down from there but..." he trails off, looking at the ceiling, blinking rapidly, and makes a helpless gesture with his right hand that clearly expresses that his well-meaning words had, in the end, not been enough.

 

"Bloody hell, John." Greg covers his eyes with his hand for a moment, still trying to wrap his head around the whole absurd scenario, and feels his gut clench in sympathy for the man before him.

 

John Watson, who had come back from a war only to find that the front-lines extended all the way to London. God. He pulls himself together though, because he is still on the job, he still has things he needs to  _ do _ and his own grief will just have to wait until he can get home, and so he asks, "Is he in there? I need to see for myself."

 

It is horrible but true. Moriarty is too skilled at playing all of them, and the temptation to pretend to himself that Sherlock is still alive somewhere out there is too great. Greg needs to be absolutely sure even though he feels slightly sick at the thought of examining the corpse.

 

John nods and Greg strides through the doors before he can change his mind.

 

It is about as horrible as he anticipated. Falling off a building really makes for an awfully messy corpse, and for the first time since his days as a newly promoted DC he has to fight down the urge to be sick in a morgue. The corpse is undeniably Sherlock's though; the long limbs, trademark coat and blue scarf unmistakable. Molly is pale and shaky as she uncovers the body and he remembers that she had always harboured a hopeless crush on the man. For a moment he is intensely, unreasonably angry at Sherlock. How dare he end his life and leave so many people broken and burned in the process? Then the anger passes, leaving a bone-crushing grief in its wake. He clenches his jaw and nods at Molly, who pulls the sheet back up over the still form on the steel table, and tries to figure out if there is anything comforting he can think to say. When he comes up blank he simply turns around and walks back out.

 

 

John is still sitting on the same chair, staring at the opposite wall, his left hand shaking slightly where it is resting on his knee. He somehow looks much smaller than usual and Greg is suddenly and horribly certain that he can't leave John to his own devices tonight, not if he doesn't want to have another suicide on his hands.

 

He walks over and puts a hand on John's shoulder. John starts, as if he had been somewhere else entirely with his thoughts and looks up at him. Greg sees the emptiness in his eyes and the clenched muscles of his jaw, and wants nothing more than to put himself between this man and the world until he stops looking so fucking breakable.

 

But it cannot be helped; they both still have work to do.

 

"I'm sorry, John, but I need you to come to the Yard and give your statement." John stares at him for a moment and then, dragging one hand through his hair and over his face, he nods tiredly. "Of course, yes."

 

Greg clears his throat again.  _ God but this is excruciating. _ On the other hand he thinks both he and John will appreciate having something to occupy their time and their minds right now.

 

"Come along then, I'll give you a ride."

 

 

It doesn't take long. John gives his statement clearly and concisely, in the manner of a man who has lost friends before and is used to having to file a report afterwards. Greg is a little relieved because he is really not sure what he would have done if John had broken down on him at this moment, but at the same time John's stoic acceptance of suffering just guts him.

 

 

When the report is finally filed he grabs John by the arm and gently steers him outside to his car. They are both quiet during the ride, lost in their own thoughts, and John gives a little start when he realises that they have pulled up outside of Greg's flat rather than at Baker Street. He shoots Greg a questioning glance and Greg simply says, "I don't think you should go back there tonight."

 

John regards him for a moment, that blank mask still in place which is starting to really worry Greg, and says "I – I appreciate it. But death is nothing new to me. I've been here before, I mean.”

 

Greg stares straight ahead through the windshield and exhales slowly. He thinks "Not like this, you haven't" and his voice comes out oddly flat when he asks, "Have you ever lost somebody -” he hesitates for a second, unsure how exactly to describe what Sherlock had been to John. “Have you ever lost somebody this important?” is what he finally settles on. “Did you ever have to go back to a flat you both shared and sit there with all his things, every tiny little detail reminding you of him?"

 

He doesn't continue, doesn't say "Have you ever tried to go to sleep in a bed that still smells of him? Have you ever felt you couldn't dress yourself in the morning because for that you would have to reach in among his clothes?" He doesn't because he is not sure whether John and Sherlock were a couple and also because he has no intention of delving into his own past wounds right now. But he thinks his meaning is clear enough.

 

John looks at him for a long moment and then exhales, squeezing his eyes shut painfully for several seconds. When he opens them the blankness is partly gone from his face and he looks brittle and unsure, instead.

 

"I don't think I have, no."

 

Greg nods.

 

"Believe me, the first night is the worst. It's...bad. You shouldn't be alone."

 

John is still looking at him as if uncertain whether Greg really means the invitation in earnest and Greg suddenly realises that, while John Watson is an old hand at taking care of other people and their needs, he is utterly unused to anyone extending a helping hand to  _ him _ . His throat constricts in sympathy because nobody should be as alone as John looks right now and he has to restrain himself to not simply pull the man into a hug.

 

Instead he thumps John on the back and says, "Right, that's settled. You'll be staying here then."

 

 

 

They trudge upstairs and Greg warms some stew that they pick at without any appetite for a while. Soon enough though, they end up at opposite ends of Greg's old couch, feet drawn up, steadily lowering the level in the bottle of whiskey Greg keeps for emergencies and looking at the blank screen of the telly.

 

He can't bear the thought of turning it on but they haven't really been talking for a while either, and when he turns his head he realises that there are tears running down John's face. He isn't sure John has even noticed that he is crying, he is staring straight ahead and makes no move to wipe away the trails of moisture dripping off his chin. The blankness, the stoic façade, is gone completely now and Greg almost can't bear the raw emotion he sees on John's face. Before he has time to think about it, he has moved to cover the distance between them and puts an arm around John's strong shoulders. John's breath hitches in an audible sob and he turns his face into the crook of Greg's neck, fisting a hand in his shirt-front. “Come here,” he says and gently brings his other arm up around John pulling him into a tight embrace. They stay like this for long minutes, John leaning against Greg's chest, trembling and gasping. Greg rubs his back in soothing circles and after a while John quiets down and simply lets himself be held. His face is still pressed into Greg's neck and Greg can feel his tears and breath hot and wet against his skin. He tightens his arms and after a moment John turns his head a little and presses a kiss to Greg's shoulder.

 

Greg freezes. There is another kiss, incongruously paired with John's still ragged breathing and Greg carefully brings his hand up to cup John's head against his shoulder.

 

"John?"

 

John pulls back a little and, God but he looks a mess. His face is wet with tears but he looks at Greg with an odd mixture of pain and need and desire. Greg's a little nonplussed by this development but the alcohol must have hit him squarely in his sense of responsibility because he suddenly thinks 'Why not?' They are both miserable and alone; they both desperately need to feel another human being close, need to feel that there are parts of themselves that are still alive. He has slept with blokes he has known far less for far baser reasons after all.

 

And that is why, when John leans in to kiss him on the mouth, Greg pulls him in with both hands on either side of John's head and slides his tongue over John's lips. They taste salty and are a little cracked but John gives a little sobbing exhalation and opens his mouth and soon they are snogging for all they are worth, clinging to each other on Greg's couch. John is straddling Greg's thigh, pressing a knee against his crotch and Greg realises he is half hard. He pushes a hand up under John's jumper, palm sliding up his smooth, muscular back while John has his hands braced on Greg's shoulders and is attacking his mouth with teeth and tongue. John is making small desperate sounds in the back of his throat, rocking the hard length of his dick against Greg and Greg decides to help the man out. He slides a hand down between them and clumsily fumbles open John's fly, reaching inside. John stills and groans into Greg's mouth as he traces his fingertips over John's y-fronts.

 

And suddenly Greg has had enough of them making out on the couch like teenagers. If they are going to have a god-awful pity fuck they are both going to regret in the morning, they might as well be comfortable doing it.

 

"Bed," He whispers against John's lips. "Let me take you to bed. Come on."

 

John doesn't react for a moment and Greg thinks he has blown it, that he has broken the magic spell that has kept both of them so far from thinking about what they are doing here, but after a moment John just closes his eyes and nods.

 

 

Greg gently pushes John off his lap and leverages himself out of the couch cushions. He herds John, who is stripping his jumper off while walking, towards his bedroom and gives him a little push once they are inside which lands John on the bed, staring up at Greg with a gut twisting mixture of lust and vulnerability on his face.

 

Greg climbs onto the mattress next to him and bends down to kiss him, unbuttoning John's shirt at the same time. John's hands reach up, fingers entwining themselves in Greg's hair and pulls him down so he can suck on Greg's tongue and graze his bottom lip with his teeth. After a moment his lips leave Greg's mouth and he mouthes along the edge of his jaw, teeth rasping against stubble. Greg closes his eyes and gives a full body shudder at that and can't help the little moan that escapes when John's mouth finds the sensitive strip of skin where jaw meets neck, right below his earlobe. John starts to suck gently on the skin there, nipping and licking and Greg has to rest his weight on both hands for a moment as shivers steal their way down his spine.

 

John gives a little laugh and pulls back. "Sensitive spot?"

 

"God, yes."

 

And suddenly Greg is straddling John's hips, pulling John's hands up over his head and pressing them down on the bed. He leans forward and catches John's mouth in a deep, messy kiss, all teeth and tongue, and then scrapes his teeth down the side of John's neck and his chest.

 

John inhales sharply and when Greg starts licking around his left nipple he closes his eyes and moans, a sound that makes Greg's dick twitch in his pants. Greg closes his lips over the hardening point, sucks and then, experimentally, bites down. John arches up under him in pleasure and Greg continues to tease both of John's nipples, alternately biting and sucking, as he moves one hand to skate down the flat and slightly furry expanse of John's stomach, the other still pinning both of John's hands against the mattress. When he reaches into John's pants he finds him stiff and leaking, smearing Greg's hand. He groans deep in his throat when Greg closes his hand around his dick and shoves up into Greg's palm. Greg sits back and takes a moment to admire the sight of John on his back under him, breathless and flushed all down his chest, pupils blown, and then he gives John a squeeze that draws another deep moan.

 

He lifts himself off so he can remove John's trousers and pants, inelegantly but efficiently tugging them down his legs and throwing them in a corner of the room. John laughs a little at that, sounding both breathless and a little hysterical and Greg can't help but grin back at him. It feels strange on his face but he gestures to the discarded trousers.

 

"Too many clothes."

 

"You too." John sits up, slips his shirt off his shoulders and beckons him closer. He reaches for Greg's fly and Greg hisses when John takes a moment to palm his erection through his trousers. He sighs in relief when John makes quick work of the button and zip.

 

Soon they are both naked and pressing up against each other. John feels bloody amazing under him, agile and muscular, thrusting up against his belly as they kiss and paw at each other desperately. There is no elegance to their fucking, just raw hunger and an infinite care. The grief and pain somehow transmutes itself into a crackling energy that they seek to ground in bites and scratches, deep, open-mouthed kisses and the sweet, sweet friction of their pricks against each other. At some point Greg pushes a hand down between them and grips both of them in his fist. John gives a loud groan at that and his dick sliding through Greg's hand, bumping his head on every upstroke, feels fantastic. It only seems a moment later that John's body tenses up under him and then John cries out, slicking his belly and Greg's hand with his come. Greg gives himself three or four more pulls and then his spine clenches and his balls draw up tight and he is coming all over both of them. He collapses in a boneless heap on John's chest and for a moment they just lie there, breathing heavily.

 

Then Greg rolls off and staggers into the bathroom. He cleans himself up and brings a wet flannel back for John. When he re-enters the bedroom, John has one arm thrown over his eyes and is breathing shallow and fast. Greg sits down next to him and very carefully wipes the wet cloth over his belly, gently cleaning his flaccid penis. By the time he is done, John's breathing has evened out a little but he is still hiding his face in the crook of his arm. Greg is getting a little concerned here thinking this might have been a bloody stupid idea and he lies down next to him, pulling the duvet up over both of them. He is beginning to feel cold as well as apprehensive and John's skin is covered with goosebumps.

 

After a minute, John turns on his side and looks at him with an unreadable expression on his face. For a moment Greg is afraid John is going to say something along the lines of "This was a horrible mistake" and really, he would prefer to keep that sort of talk for the morning.

 

But instead John's eyes merely wander over his face for long seconds and then he asks, "That...Earlier...The person you were talking about in the car...who you lost..." John's voice trails off uncertainly but regains momentum. "He was your boyfriend?"

 

Greg nods, takes a deep breath, lets it out, keeps his eyes on John who deserves to know this. "Michael. I'd just moved to London, started working for the Met. Met him in a club. We were together for three years. He died.”

 

He can see John's eyes darkening and before he can chicken out, he continues, “it was the same year as Nicholas Eden."

 

John's sharp intake of breath tells Greg that he has said enough.

 

"Was it AIDS?"

 

Greg just nods.

 

"Jesus, Greg."

 

They lie there for a moment, looking at each other, each seeing their pain reflected in the other's eyes. Oddly enough it seems to make it a little easier to bear.

 

"Sherlock and I weren't lovers, you know." John says after a while.

 

Greg considers that for a moment. "Were you in love with him, though?"

 

John gives a helpless shrug. "I don't know? Maybe? I think." He closes his eyes, regret and loss etched on the lines of his mouth, the tight skin under his eyes.

 

"When I first came back here, I felt like nothing really mattered. Like nothing was real. Like  _ I _ wasn't real. He changed all that. He - living with Sherlock Holmes is like living life at high speed and high definition, whether you want it to be or not."

 

For a moment John lays silent, thinking about what he has just said and then his features go soft, the corners of his mouth turning down. It is an expression Greg is intimately familiar with. He has seen it often enough on the faces of people he was interviewing and he knows it as the clue that he has hit a particularly vulnerable spot, that the person facing him is fighting hard to keep it together.

 

John breathes out shakily. "I just - I can't imagine what I am going to do now. What is even left of my life right now?"

 

Greg knows this question to be a rhetorical one. He knows that John will discover, at some point, that he does have the strength and the purpose to continue life without Sherlock. He also knows how utterly impossible this seems right now and so he doesn't say anything. Instead he moves closer to John and pulls him in, until John's head is resting on his chest. He reaches up and starts to gently stroke a hand through John's hair, feeling the short, soft strands catching on the rough skin of his fingers.

 

"Hush, love. Go to sleep."

 

John exhales raggedly against his collarbone but he relaxes minutely and Greg knows that soon enough, alcohol, sex and exhaustion will do their work and pull John under.

 

Until then he will lie here and keep watch.


	2. Cold light of morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And, Jesus, now he gets to explain to Lestrade that this is not his usual _modus operandi_ , that he doesn't generally sleep with blokes. He hates himself for one intense second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very grateful to emmadelosnardos for her wonderful beta services and to a_lanart for being a great Brit picker.

Greg wakes up to a warm weight on his chest, his nose being tickled by soft strands of hair, and a heaviness in his bones. He is lying in his bed, John Watson curled up against him in his sleep. This is not something he ever expected to happen but they lost Sherlock yesterday, a sudden change that left both of them reeling and desperate. Greg's breathing is growing shallow and he stares at his bedroom ceiling unseeingly because right here, right now, in the silence of early morning and with John dead to the world, he can't help but feel his own loss. 

The most brilliant man he will ever know is dead and Greg won't ever have the chance to find out whether, in the end, he would have turned into the good man he has always had the potential to be. He is dead, his reputation ruined, and Greg had to stand by helplessly as suspicion upon suspicion unfurled around them, a poisonous web catching them both. Sally is his best officer, the one most like himself, and he can not, will not blame her for her suspicions. Asking painful questions, even if it implicates her boss, is nothing less than her duty. But Greg has known Sherlock for years, has watched him grow from a drug-crazed genius who loitered around crime scenes into the polished and commanding presence he is today. 

He had been until yesterday, Greg reminds himself savagely when he realises that his mind is refusing to relegate Sherlock to the past tense. There is no way in hell Sherlock is a fraud and the thought that he had not trusted Greg to realise that, that Sherlock had not trusted any of his friends enough, is so painful that Greg feels a little sick. He has encountered suicides before, has even talked a man down from a bridge once. The main thing that has stayed with him from these encounters, and which still causes his stomach to churn in sympathetic pain whenever he remembers them, is the despair. That dreadful look of forlorn desperation that you only encounter on the face of someone who has examined all his options and has come up lacking; who has decided that life hurts so much that not feeling anything ever again will be an improvement. 

The thought of that look on Sherlock's remarkable face twists his gut so badly that for a moment he is afraid he will actually throw up. And then the irrational and intense anger that assaulted him in the morgue yesterday floods back into his body and he thinks: You are supposed to be observant, you bloody wanker! How could you not have known that we would believe you? That we would stand with you and defend you? Do you really think you are so far above us that if you see no way out, there is no way out? You could have trusted other people for once in your life, you stupid bastard!

There are tears running down his face now, and the mix of anger and regret and second-hand despair is making it difficult to breath. He feels John stir against him and quickly slips out from underneath him to hide in the bathroom. John has enough sorrows of his own, Greg thinks; he doesn't deserve to see Greg lose it, too. For a long time he stands in front of the sink, both hands braced on the porcelain rim, head hanging low between his shoulders. Then he turns the shower as hot as it will go and tries to let the scalding water pound away the unsettling coldness that has crept into his bones, his mind firmly fixed on breakfast.

 

John wakes up feeling empty and exhausted. He lies there in Greg's bed and for long minutes he doesn't want to open his eyes. He wants to hide here, in this tiny warm cave that smells of sweat and sex, Greg's soft duvet shielding him from a world that has become painful and dully colourless again. Then the shower next door is turned off and he can hear the sounds of an electric razor and what must be Greg brushing his teeth. He reluctantly opens his eyes and looks around, trying to locate his clothing. He has a sudden and intense recollection of Greg kneeling over him and tugging off his trousers and feels a hot flash of embarrassment run through him. What sort of man has sex on the day his best friend jumps off a roof? Just how fucked up is that? And, Jesus, now he gets to explain to Lestrade that this is not his usual modus operandi, that he doesn't generally sleep with blokes. He hates himself for one intense second and then Lestrade strides into the room, wearing nothing but a towel, drops of water still dripping down his torso from the ends of his hair. God, the man is gorgeous.

“D'you like beans on toast?” he asks John rather prosaically as he turns to a battered chest of drawers, pulling out boxer shorts and socks. “It's either that or Weetabix, I think. I haven't really had time to go to the shops lately.” 

He straightens up and looks at John over his shoulder, one lonely navy sock dangling from his right hand, quirking an eyebrow questioningly. 

John gives himself a little shake and finally gets out of bed. “Beans are fine,” he says, gathering up his clothes. “Um, would you have a towel?” 

Greg points to a shelf in the bathroom. “Help yourself. I'll be putting the kettle on.” 

The mundaneness of their exchange is both soothing and utterly disorienting and as Lestrade walks out of the room John feels reminded of a dozen other mornings-after with complete strangers. Only, this is not a normal morning and Greg is by no stretch of the imagination a stranger. He grimaces at the bloody mess he has created for himself and then gets into the shower. 

He gets dressed and dithers over whether or not to use Lestrade's toothbrush for a moment. Swapping bodily fluid while kissing drunkenly is one thing but John decides that he can't deal with this level of intimacy in the cold light of morning. He heads to the kitchen instead, where Lestrade is just in the process of pouring hot beans over four slices of toast.

He looks up at John when he enters the room and gestures to the kitchen table with his chin. John sits down next to one of the two steaming cups of milky tea and wraps his hands gratefully around the hot mug. Lestrade places a plate in front of him and returns to the stove one more time to pick up a bottle of brown sauce before sitting down himself. 

They eat and drink in silence for a while, the only sound in the kitchen the scraping of their forks. Then John decides that he might as well take the bull by the horns and clears his throat. “Listen Greg, about last night...” --he is staring down at his plate intently and so he is a little surprised when Greg interrupts him at this point to say “I know, I know, John. I'm really sorry, mate.” 

John glances up at him and realises that Greg looks guilty of all things. He is too baffled to say anything and so Greg continues: “We were both drunk, we were both not in our right minds. I shouldn't have let it happen. I'm sorry. I actually do have standards where consent is concerned, I was just a little...” he bites his lip while he is obviously searching for words and finally settles on “...surprised.”

John gives himself a little shake and brings up a hand to stop Lestrade who has somehow got the completely wrong end of the stick. “Whoa, no, that is not what I meant. Believe me, if anyone is to blame for what happened yesterday it's me. I started snogging you, remember?” Lestrade doesn't say anything and so John continues. “It's just that – well....,” he shrugs helplessly, “I'm not gay, you know? I don't really do this.”

“Oh,” Lestrade says, “I see.” His mouth twists unhappily and then he blurts out. “That is strange because I could have sworn you had touched another guy's dick outside of a medical before. You know, considering the way you handled mine.” He looks at John challengingly now and John can feel himself blush.

“I...yes, yes, I have. There were a couple of mates in the army, we, well....” He is aware that he is fumbling this conversation badly but Lestrade deserves an honest answer here. “I have done hand-jobs before, alright? But it was just mutual stress relief in a high pressure environment. I like women. I don't date blokes.”

“Yes, because those two things are, of course, mutually exclusive.” Lestrade is sounding sarcastic now and John feels like he is slowly digging himself into some kind of hole. 

Unfortunately he can't seem to stop himself. “I know they are not, it's just – sex with men isn't really my thing.”

And now Greg just sounds tired and maybe even a little bitter as he says resignedly, “You realise that is utter homophobic bollocks, you're spewing there, don't you?”

John feels a little stung. “Hey, I'm not a homophobe Greg, I just - ”

“You have just convinced yourself that sex with men doesn't count so you don't have to face the idea that you might be a little queer. Happens all the time, Johnny, happens all the time.”

Lestrade is shaking his head and John winces. Harry and his Mum are the only people alive who use that nickname, and to hear Lestrade utter it in his strangely flat tone makes him feel about two feet tall. He tries to think of something to say but in the end all he can come up with is: “I'm sorry, Greg, I'm really sorry.”

Lestrade just shakes his head again and looks out the window over John's shoulder. “Eat your toast, John. It's getting cold.”


	3. Pockets of light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes is dead but there are still pockets of light in the world. He is determined to savour them as best he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> emmadelosnardos was a wonderful beta for this chapter, lostgirlslair cheered me on and gave great feedback and a_lanart and her dedicated Brit picking prevented me from making a fool of myself.  
> Thank you so much!

They bury Sherlock on a Wednesday afternoon and it is raining softly. It's a small gathering; the only people who can make it are Harry, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly and Angelo. John is both grateful for the small turnout and thinks it's a horrible disgrace. Sherlock Holmes deserves all the honour and pomp of a state funeral, not this miserable little affair in the drizzle of a grey afternoon. There is an elderly priest from the nearby church who reads out a generic C of E funeral service from his missal, but all John can hear is the steady patter of raindrops on his umbrella.

 

Finally, the coffin is lowered down into the earth. For a moment he is afraid people will file past him and shake his hand as if he is the grieving spouse. The only thing more horrible than that would be having to offer his own condolences to Mycroft, who looks so calm and collected that John wants to punch him. But everybody just stands around the grave for a bit, looking lost until Lestrade clears his throat and asks if anybody wants to join him for a pint in the pub just around the corner, and they trail after him slowly.

 

Mycroft excuses himself, and Molly and Harry have to go back to work, but John, Mrs Hudson and Angelo follow Greg into the pub and end up spending the rest of the afternoon and a good bit of the evening there. At first they sit quietly, drinking and staring at the table but then Mrs Hudson starts talking about meeting Sherlock for the first time and soon everybody but John is telling stories. Some of them are funny or unexpectedly sweet – he would not have pegged Sherlock as someone who would nurse a sickly detective inspector through a bout of pneumonia – but all of them are so clearly _Sherlock_ that John can hardly bear it. He knows why people do this, why the others tell story after story, but his leg is jiggling restlessly and at some point he simply goes to the loo and never returns.

 

The next couple of weeks are hell. John is staying at Harry's, which is not as bad as it could be; their well-rehearsed arguments are momentarily forgotten as they fall back into even older patterns of caring and being cared for. No, what drives John absolutely up the wall during these first few weeks is his work at the surgery. Sarah had offered him time off but he had insisted that having a routine and a purpose would be good for him. If the army had taught him anything, it was that there is no medicine for grief better than hard work. But he had somehow failed to take into account that every single one of his patients has heard about Sherlock Holmes' suicide and feels the need to talk about it. Some are aware that John knew him, and express their sympathy, which John tries to accept with good grace. Others want to talk to him about the “fraudulent madmen who had led the police on such a merry chase and then topped himself”. The first time that happens, John has to leave the room and ask Sarah to switch cases with him or he would have punched the woman in the nose.

 

Slowly, however, John finds it easier and easier to move in the world again. At first, he had felt raw and over-sensitive, every sound grating and every interaction terribly exhausting. But he keeps to his routine, gets up in the morning, makes tea (for one), reads the newspaper, goes to work, cooks dinner. His exhaustion ebbs incrementally and he finds that his interest in the outside world increases: He starts noticing the people around him on the tube when he is on his way to work, he finds himself wondering how the latest match went, and he even ends up watching some live footie with Harry one evening. When he reads the paper he studiously avoids all articles dealing with Sherlock or Richard Brook but he is beginning to care again about what happens to the rest of he world and that feels good.

 

He is sitting there, eating his toast and sipping his tea when his eye falls on an article about the internal investigations under way at Scotland Yard right now. He hesitates for a second but then picks up the paper and reads the piece. It seems that the internal enquiries are winding down and that no heads will roll after all – which is a relief. He suddenly thinks of Greg and wonders how he is doing. It can't have been easy to have your whole career under suspicion – John doesn't know what he would have done if Sarah hadn't let him back into the surgery. He shudders.

 

Over the next few days he finds his mind returning to Greg more and more often and he realises that he feels a bit ashamed about how he has acted. To jump the man and then practically disappear off the face of the earth isn't very good manners. He wonders if he should call Greg and apologise but their last conversation is still fresh in his mind. He doesn't like to think of himself as a hypocrite and the idea that Greg thinks he is more homophobic than he wants to admit, annoys him and shames him in equal proportions. Was it really homophobic to make a difference between his one-night stands with women and those mutual wanks during his army days? He can't remember ever falling in love with a man, not even crushing on male film stars as a boy. He had always been firmly fixated on the fairer sex, and while he has jerked other guys off, he has only ever had feelings for women.

 

But then an insistent little voice that sounds frustratingly like Sherlock's reminds him of his conversation with Irene Adler: 'Are you jealous?' 'We're not a couple.' 'Yes, you are.' 'For the record, if anyone out there still cares — I'm not actually gay.' 'Well, I am. Look at us both.' Maybe sexuality was a little more complicated than that. He grimaces because, if he is being totally honest with himself, he has to admit that what he had felt for Sherlock had been a little beyond what one could reasonably classify as friendship. That didn't make him gay, of course, but still. And while he's being honest with himself he might as well admit that he has known for a while that Greg Lestrade is a more than averagely handsome bloke. Plus, he had liked the man from the beginning, had been impressed by the way he managed to keep Sherlock in line while simultaneously relying on his input, had enjoyed his dry wit at crime scenes. He really admires that it is clear that Greg Lestrade still cares about every single case that goes over his desk, despite years on the force. And maybe, when he was a little drunk and not so terribly careful in policing his fantasies late at night, Lestrade's chocolate brown eyes and captivatingly thin lips had cropped up just as often as the white column of Sherlock's throat or absurd cheekbones while he was pulling himself off.

 

He doesn't regret the sex they had, he really doesn't. He still remembers how good Greg had felt against him, warm and solid under him as they were making out on the couch. Remembers the incredibly hot way in which Greg's body had shuddered against his own when he found that one perfect spot on the man's neck. Remembers, too, the thrill that had run through him as he suddenly found himself stretched out under Greg, his hands pinned to the mattress in a move he had used on any number of women but that he had never guessed felt so _good_ to be at the receiving end of.

 

Is it normal to be crushing on another guy when you have just buried your best friend? Your best friend you were at least a little in love with, at that? John has no idea. But he knows that there are few things in his world right now that truly make him care, that can put a smile on his face. Can it really be so wrong to look for more of that with a person he trusts wholeheartedly? He finds it hard to believe.

 

  
  


  
  


They haven't seen each other or talked in over a month when Greg walks out of his last hearing regarding Sherlock Holmes and “the validity of his contributions”, and sees John waiting in his office. He thinks he might at last have convinced the Commissioner that Sherlock's contributions were too genuine, too spontaneous, too bloody _non-strategic_ to be part of a giant plan to show up the Met but he is knackered and frustrated and simply ready for the day to end when he spots the familiar figure through his office window.

 

He braces himself for a moment because their last interaction had been nothing but awkward but then decides that the day can hardly get worse and opens the door.

 

“John, what can I do for you?”

 

John jerks around and his eyes wander over Greg's face appraisingly for a moment. Then he shrugs.

 

“I heard today was the last day of the official hearings and I thought you might need a drink afterwards. Thought I'd take you down to that little pub in Clerkenwell. They have got a ton of real ale and some crazy stuff like fruit beer or honey porter.”

 

Greg thinks about it for a moment. The last time they got drunk together he behaved utterly irresponsibly and got a gay-panic brush-off for his troubles, but he thinks he is unlikely to make that particular mistake twice. And the pub sounds just the ticket after the day he's had.

 

“That actually sounds bloody fantastic,” he says. “Just give me a moment to get my stuff together.”

 

 

It is a surprisingly pleasant evening. The beer is pretty amazing, even though it comes in completely mental flavours like grapefruit or whisky, and John is relaxed and keeps buying them pints.

 

When the pub closes they stand on the street for a little longer, both loath to let the evening end and Greg maybe, maybe allows himself to notice just how handsome John looks in his black jacket. The street light highlights the angles and planes of his face in stark contrasts, and his body language is purposeful and confident in that way Greg has found sexy from the very beginning.

 

He realises he hasn't been paying attention to what John is actually saying and that it must show because John is looking at him with gentle amusement. He blushes a little and hopes it is invisible in the dim lighting.

 

“Sorry, mate, I think it's time for me to head home. It's been quite a day.”

 

John just smiles and claps him on the shoulder in a companionable way and they walk back to the tube together. They take trains into opposite directions.

 

Greg has to admit that this has quite possibly been the nicest evening he has had in a while. Which either means he needs to get out more or that his little crush on John isn't quite as little as he thought. He grimaces because he has the tendency to get stupidly invested in the people he sleeps with, even when he doesn't mean to. But then he decides that he is torturing himself for nothing. John is a nice bloke, simple as that, and he did something nice for Greg today and they had a pleasant evening. Case closed.

 

 

John is hurtling back to Harry's place on the almost empty Northern line and as he stares out into the darkness beyond the rattling window he can't help but remember Greg's face. He was handsome and relaxed in the warm light of the pub, the stress of two weeks of internal investigations falling off him. John had felt absurdly pleased at being able to do something for Lestrade. The more he thinks about it the more he is sure he has been a complete prick and it's nice to think that Greg still likes him enough to go out for a pint after all that. And blast it, but the man is good-looking. There is something about the contrast between his silvery grey hair and lively brown eyes that just really gets John hot and bothered. He still remembers how it felt to kiss him and then has to sternly remind himself that he is on a train and needs to think of something completely unsexy for a bit so he doesn't embarrass himself with a public stiffy. He blushes a bit a that but then he thinks that he hasn't felt this relaxed and downright happy in weeks. He can't help the smile tugging at his lips.

 

 

 

Harry is still awake when he gets home, working on a briefing at the kitchen table. He puts the kettle on and makes himself some tea. She looks up and studies him for a moment, head cocked to the side. “You look cheerful.”

 

He shrugs. “Went out for a pint with a mate. It was nice.” It had been more than nice but Harry doesn't need to know everything, particularly since she has an amazing talent at cocking up his relationships for him. Then he gives himself a little shake. God, one night out with the man and he is thinking about relationships! He needs to get a grip.

 

He plunks himself down at the kitchen table with his tea and grabs a biscuit from Harry's plate. It takes a moment, but then she narrows her eyes in an expression he has dreaded since childhood because it means she has figured him out.

 

“You didn't just go out for a pint. You met somebody!” She sounds surprised and he can't blame her. As far as she knows he has spent his time shuttling back and forth between four locations – the surgery, his therapist's office, the graveyard and her house – all of which seem highly unlikely places to meet the kind of women he prefers to date.

 

“Not exactly,” he prevaricates, “it really was just a couple of pints. And no women were involved at any stage of the process.”

 

Harry is clearly having none of it. “Don't you lie to me, John Watson. Ever since you were 13 years old I have known what you look like when you are belly-aching over a woman. You're rubbish at dating and you know it.”

 

“Oi!” He protests, “I am not rubbish at dating – I have dated quite a lot of women quite successfully.”

 

She rolls her eyes. “Successful by whose standards? And if you are so bloody _fantastic_ at it why did none of them ever stick around?”

 

He throws his hands up in exasperation. “Buggered if I know! Maybe they didn't like the alcoholic older sister who was always hovering over me like some kind of really, really drunk and inept guardian angel?” He knows the instant he has said it that he has gone too far. Yes, Harry had been utterly annoying during his time at uni and yes, having to rush to A&E to hold her hand while she had her stomach pumped had played a role in Marissa dumping him. But still, there were places you did not go to score a point. He grimaces at himself.

 

Harry is studying the table top intently, her lips pursed. Her voice is full of quiet bitterness when she finally speaks. “It must feel so nice to be the success story of the family. Well, fuck you. Not all of us had a big sister to hide behind when the shit hit the fan at home, did we?”

 

He closes his eyes for a moment because it's true, he bloody _knows_ it is true, but he can't help the resentment that boils up in him instantly. He hadn't bloody well asked to be the baby brother now, had he? Hadn't asked for a martyr of an older sister who would make him pay during his entire life for escaping the alcoholic legacy of their father. He – ah, fuck it. John can feel the fight drain right out of him. There is something about grieving for his best friend that makes him really, really loath to fight with one of the few people still alive who will take him in, no questions asked, for however long he needs a place to crash.

 

He gives it a moment and then shakes his head, as if to dispel the frustrated aggression that has suddenly erupted between them. “Anyway,” he says, “you're wrong. It's not about a woman, ok? It's about...somebody else.” He knows as soon as he says it that he won't get away with that.

 

Harry considers him thoughtfully for a moment and then her face lights up with devilish glee, their fight momentarily forgotten. “Oh Johnny, really? Ha, I knew it!”

 

He still decides to play dumb for a little longer, just to give her the chance to drag it out of him as a strange kind of penance. “Knew what, exactly?”

 

“That I am not the only queer in the family, after all. It's not about a woman, it's a guy, isn't it?”

 

For a moment John considers banging his head against the kitchen table because Harry will feel vindicated that he has finally seen the light after all of the years that she encouraged him to explore his bi-curious side – which he had strongly denied having, thank you very much. And she will be insufferable about it. But the problem is, Harry is right. And he thinks he owes her a little because he hadn't exactly been the most supportive of brothers when she had come out to their parents. He had only been ten at the time but still, giving her some insight into his current sexuality crisis was probably only fair.

 

He holds up his hands. “Alright, alright, you win. It's about a guy.”

 

She leans back with an expectant grin that quite clearly says “Oh, this is going to be good.”

 

“So, remember I told you about Greg Lestrade? Sherlock's contact at the Yard?”

 

“Oh, the handsome detective inspector? Nice, Johnny! And he definitely beeps on the gaydar so you should at least have a sporting chance.”

 

He looks at her agape. “How can you possibly know? You have only ever seen him in the newspaper!”

 

“And on the telly box, mind. I'm right though, aren't I?”

 

He has to concede the point.

 

“Well, anyway, he – he was....he took me back to his place the day Sherlock..... you know.”

 

Her face softens in sympathy and he is grateful he doesn't actually have to spell it out for her.

 

Every day the spaces grow larger in which he manages not to think about the fact that he has just lost Sherlock; that the brightest, most alive part of his existence is now lying under six feet of graveyard dirt. Even so, he still wakes up at least once a night from seeing the tall, lanky figure drop to the ground, coat spread out behind him like utterly ineffectual wings.

 

He clears his throat and continues, “He said it would be better for me not to be by myself in the flat and we started drinking and....” he gestures helplessly.

 

Harry's brows are drawn together critically and she looks at him disapprovingly. “Are you telling me that this guy got you drunk on the day your best friend committed suicide and then jumped you?”

 

“No, no, that is not how it happened. In fact it was me doing the jumping, ok? But I think he blames himself even though we were both grieving and off our heads.”

 

Harry looks a little mollified. “So then, what happened?”

 

“Well, one thing led to another and we had, you know, sex.” He gestures vaguely, again.

 

“And?” she asks, one eyebrow arched. “Was it any good?”

 

“Oh, it was bloody fantastic. It just....I sort of blew it the morning after.”

 

“Oh God, please tell me you didn't have a gay freak-out.”

 

“Not exactly, no. But I did tell him that while I have...done things with guys before, I'm not gay. I don't actually date men.” He can't quite suppress a wince as he remembers that particular conversation.

 

“Oh Johnny, you didn't! I'll have you know that only my enormous maturity and the fact that I'm strictly against violence of any kind are preventing me from giving you the clip around the ear you so clearly deserve.”

 

He hides his bright red face behind his hands. “I know, OK? I know I fucked that up.”

 

“So, what happened next? Did you see the error of your ways and you had hot steamy make-up sex?”

 

“No. I sort of dropped out of contact for a bit. Needed time to process. And....do other stuff.”

 

She nods understandingly.

 

She knows that John has spent the last four weeks going to emergency sessions with his therapist and slowly, slowly getting back to functioning at a normal level. Truth be told, Harry has been a godsend ever since John had set foot back into 221B Baker Street and realised he would never be able to actually live there again without going utterly mental. She had come and fetched him and his duffel bag and had cleared space in her guest bedroom without saying a thing.

 

They hadn't always got along – to put it mildly – but if there was one thing you could rely on, it was that a Watson would stick by you if the going got rough.

 

Even though their last contact had been Harry yelling at him about the utter idiocy of sending British troops to Afghanistan and being outraged at the fact that he had slept with Clara mere months after their separation. Which, John had to admit in retrospect, had been a pretty enormous dick move on his part.

 

 

“And? How is the processing going?” She asks now, sounding more gentle than at the beginning of their conversation.

 

He shrugs. “Well, I have come to the conclusion that I'm probably...bisexual?”

 

Harry snorts in an amused fashion which John figures he deserves. “Well, I guess that's something. At least you got there in the end.”

 

He can't help the eye-roll. It must still be hard-wired from their childhood where it was often his only comeback against a sister who was always much more eloquent than he was.

 

“So, how long have you had the hots for this guy?” she asks curiously. “Or is it all just booze and heightened emotions?”

 

“No, I don't think so. I think – well, everyone was forever mistaking me for Sherlock's boyfriend or his date or something.” He shrugs, looking down at his hands that have started to twiddle a matchbook of their own accord. “And he was just this force of nature and, well, I guess at some point I had to admit to myself that I was probably in love with the bloke?”

 

He does wish Harry would look a little more surprised but then she would have been the only one. Even Sarah had just rolled her eyes heavenwards and given him a sarcastic “Oh really, you don't say” type of look that made him wonder just how obvious he had been about his infatuation when they were still dating.

 

“I'm still not seeing how the handsome policeman comes in.”

 

“I, um.” God, how do you explain to your sister that your subconscious had apparently taken your crush on your flatmate as blanket permission to feature hot blokes in your half-asleep fantasies? You didn't, that's how. He decides to tell a slightly edited version of the truth.

 

“Well, once I had admitted to myself that I might be attracted to men, I tried to test the theory.” He isn't sure how plausible this sounds – it seems more like something Sherlock would do.

 

“Test the theory?”

 

“Yeah, see, Sherlock was just such an odd and, I don't know, slightly _unearthly_ creature.” That much at least was true. “I was trying to figure out whether I was actually queer or just Sherlock-sexual.”

 

Harry isn't rolling her eyes this time but John can tell that she is actively suppressing it. He soldiers on regardless.

 

“So, I started actively checking out blokes around me, you know? Trying to figure out whether I was attracted to any of them? And Lestrade, well. Once I had looked at him in that light, I sort of couldn't unsee it. I mean, he is bloody handsome.” God, is he ever.

 

“Johnny, even I can tell that and I am a _lesbian_.”

 

“Right. And he is great mate, too, you know. Smart. Dedicated to his job. I mean, I know he can come over as a bumbling idiot next to Sherlock, but so do I. He is clever, though, and....um. Dependable?” It seems like a weird thing to be attracted to, but in the vortex of activity and danger that Sherlock could effortlessly create out of thin air, Lestrade's steady reliability and competence had been utterly appealing. They still are, if John is being honest. Competence is sexy and so is stability.

 

“Plus he is a really good guy. Just.....genuinely good.” He shrugs, unable to explain the warmth Greg exudes so naturally, the way he seems to actually care about every single person around him.

Harry is smiling more broadly now, but then her forehead creases into another frown.

 

“So why haven't you made your move before?”

 

He shrugs. “Well, it was a bit of a shock to realise I fancied blokes as well, you know? And partly it was that - ” he shrugs. “Most of my time I spent running around after murderers with Sherlock. And Sherlock was just - ” John waves both hands around in a mute attempt to encompass Sherlock's general Sherlockness. Sherlock had taken up almost every waking minute of John's life and the excitement of their capers had been both exhilarating and all-consuming.

 

Harry purses her lips again and he knows what she is thinking. She had never quite approved of Sherlock and the way he had monopolised John's time and attention, but she is too polite to say so right now. John suppresses another little twitch of anger at this and is relieved when she just shakes her head a little and then smiles up at him crookedly but with genuine warmth.

 

“Well, I'm glad, Johnny. I'm really happy to see that you've found somebody like that. He sounds like a great guy.”

 

John can only nod. Then he pulls a grimace. “The only problem is that I really made a dog's dinner of it, didn't I? I mean, even if I was hitting on him now he would hardly respond after that stupid shit I pulled on him?” He knows he sounds all of 15, asking his big sister for advice on his love life, but there aren't a lot of other people he can talk to right now.

 

Harry looks thoughtful. “Maybe give it some time. Throw out some low pressure invitations. See how it goes.”

 

Considering that is precisely what he has done this evening, and considering that it really went remarkably well, John thinks that this is probably sound advice. He smiles happily to himself and eats another chocolate digestive. Sherlock Holmes is dead but there are still pockets of light in the world. He is determined to savour them as best he can.


	4. Interlude I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry and John burn their dinner.

A week later, John is cooking stirfry for himself and Harry he suddenly says: “Maybe I should see whether the army will take me back. My limp and tremor have disappeared and -- ” that's as far as he gets because Harry behind him has dropped her mug on the floor with a crash where it is now lying in a mess of ceramic shards and tea.

 

Her face has turned white and she looks so aghast that he automatically huffs out a tired breath and says: “Oh God, I forgot, didn't I? You are a bloody pacifist. Do you still think we are subjugating the peaceful local population down there?”

 

Harry closes her eyes for a moment in a move that he recognises as her “God give me strength, I have an idiot for a brother”-expression.

 

“Johnny, you realise that while, yes, I do think out troops have absolutely no business being in Afghanistan, that was never my main objection to _you_ shipping out with the army, don't you?”

 

He must look as nonplussed as he feels because she throws her hands up in exasperation and yells: “I am worried that my little brother is going to get himself _killed_ , OK? I am worried the next bullet might actually end you, you stupid oaf!”

 

“Oh,” he says intelligently, because that is really not how he has been thinking about things at all, though now it seems kind of obvious. Harry has never quite outgrown her protectiveness where he is concerned, which is fairly ridiculous considering he has been killing people professionally for a living and she has been serving them warrants.

 

“Yes, oh! You stupid berk.” They stare at each other for a moment longer and then she stalks over to him and pulls him into the angriest hug he has ever experienced.

 

“I was worried sick the entire time you were gone. So was Mum. Don't you dare do that to us ever again. I swear, I will find a way to have myself appointed as your legal guardian if you try.”

 

“OK,” he says shakily, “it was just an idea.” She snorts as if to say that ideas were never his strong suit, which isn't entirely fair, but at this moment he chooses not to argue. They stand like this until the stir fry starts to burn, at which point they give cooking up as a lost cause and decide to go out to the Japanese restaurant around the corner.


	5. The presence of absence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Two people sharing the absence of a third will probably not feel quite as alone._

By now, John likes going to the graveyard. There is something quiet and peaceful about it and if he goes before his morning shift he usually has the entire area to himself, too. He sits with his back against the stone and sometimes he even talks to Sherlock out loud. He knows that it's idiotic and that the man would scoff at him if he were still alive, but he isn't alive, and so John talks to him.

 

At first coming here had been a painful chore. The whole spectacle of Sherlock's death had seemed so surreal, so improbable, that he had felt the need to remind himself daily that his friend was, in fact, dead. That he would never again come home to find severed heads in the fridge or be woken at night by violin music drifting up the stairs. He had seen Sherlock in every tall man in a greatcoat and it had been torture. The graveyard, while painful, had provided him with a kind of sanity.

 

Often, the only thing he says out loud nowadays is: “I miss you.”

 

It is true. It is heartbreakingly, soultearingly true.

 

And yet he can't help but carry on. He is working in the surgery again and even thinking about applying for the new vacancy coming up in an A&E across the city. He plays football with a couple of people from the Yard every Wednesday evening. He is fighting with Harry who is skirting relapse like a spaceship orbiting a black hole.

 

He still has days when he can hardly get out of bed, when he is so angry at Moriarty, at Donovan, at all of them, that he has to consciously blink away the red film between him and the chart he is studying. But the truth is, he is surviving.

 

He sometimes thinks that the two years with Sherlock have given him a foundation that he never noticed at the time but that now turns out to be surprisingly sturdy. When he had first come back to London, he had felt brittle and unbalanced. Now, it is as if in all the turmoil there is a solid center to him that will hold. He has good days and bad days, days of crushing boredom and days of deep sadness but he has never slid back into the terrifyingly blank state of feeling he remembers from those first weeks.

 

 

 

Because John spends a lot of time at the graveyard, he notices who else comes to visit. He never sees Mycroft Holmes but Mrs. Hudson comes religiously every Saturday and tends to the flowers on the grave. Sally Donovan sometimes appears and he always takes care to make himself scarce when he sees her approaching. He cannot quite forgive her for her role in what happened but her steady presence here means something.

 

Sometimes he accompanies Mrs Hudson back to Baker Street for a cup of tea when they meet on Saturday afternoons. She has slowly packed up all of Sherlock's belongings and has even considered looking for new tenants but evidently can't quite bring herself to make the move. Apparently Mycroft has been paying the rent up until now. He is also stowing Sherlock's things in his house, but John tries not to think about Mycroft too much.

 

Then, one day when he and Harry have had an especially bitter fight and John thinks that he will now, finally, have to find a new place to live, because he has shared quarters with an alcoholic once in his life and really, once was enough, – Mrs Hudson suddenly asks him whether he would consider moving back in.

 

His first impulse is to say no, but he lets her drag him upstairs for a walk through. The walls seem oddly bare without the paintings and the books and there is not a single Erlenmeyer flask or Petri dish drying on the dish rack. The music stand and the harpoon have likewise disappeared and so has the skull. It seems utterly alien but at the same time John can't help the instinctive feeling of recognition and ownership.

 

Baker Street was the first place he had called home after coming back and that is still what it feels like even though it is now haunted by Sherlock's absence.

 

“Mrs. Hudson, I won't be able to pay the rent on my own.”

 

“Oh, I know dear, but after all Mycroft is paying all of the rent now. I am sure he would agree to go halves with you. And it would be nice to have some life back here. Sometimes I feel a little lonely.”

 

She sounds so sad when she says it that John's mind is immediately made up. He has always liked Mrs Hudson a lot and he knows how much she loved Sherlock. And after all, two people sharing the absence of a third will probably not feel quite as alone. Or so he hopes.

 

And so, a month after Sherlock's death, John moves his things back into Baker Street. Harry pretends to be sad about it but he thinks she is secretly just as relieved as he is. He settles into his new/old life, and now Mrs Hudson and he go to the graveyard together on Saturdays.

 

 

It takes John another week after moving back to 221B to realise that he has never once seen Greg Lestrade at the graveside. That is more than a little odd: He knows that there is history between Sherlock and Lestrade, that Lestrade had had a hand in getting Sherlock off the drugs. That Sherlock, despite his constant mockery of the man, held Lestrade in high regard and trusted him utterly. He also thinks that Lestrade cared for Sherlock more than he let on. He had caught the little flashes of satisfaction from Lestrade when Sherlock made an especially brilliant deduction, and was sure he had sometimes seen a look of gentle fondness on Lestrade's face when he was regarding Sherlock and thought no-one was looking.

 

His absence seems so out of character that John resolves to bring it up the next time he sees Lestrade.

 

 

 

They have taken to meeting up regularly on Fridays after they are both finished with work. Sometimes they will go down to the pub for a pint, sometimes they'll go for dinner or just get some take-away and watch the idiot box together. It is easy and companionable and ever so slightly flirty.

 

John will sometimes find Greg looking at him in a decidedly non-platonic way, and to be honest, John does a fair bit of ogling himself. The man could sprawl for England, the way he melts into the armchair, and John would be lying if he pretended that he hasn't fantasised about what else one can get up to in that chair.

 

Occasionally, when it's late and they are both a little tipsy, they stop caring so much and will sometimes catch each other staring. John is fairly sure that it is on him to make the first move but he is still a little too afraid of rejection to risk it.

 

 

This week they are sitting in the pub down the road and are on their third pints when John mentions the fact that he hasn’t seen Lestrade at Sherlock’s grave.

 

Lestrade grimaces and traces a finger through the condensation of his glass.

 

“Partly it's that I just really don't like graveyards. But also.....” he shrugs. “It seems like it would be the final step, you know? I guess it sounds silly but there's a part of me that really doesn't want this to be over just yet. And going to the grave....it would be like closing the book, eh? No going back after that.”

 

He looks so sad at that and John simply can't help himself. He slides closer to Lestrade in the booth they are sitting in and puts an arm around him, squeezing his shoulders a little.

 

“It's not silly.” he says with conviction. “We all deal with it in our own ways, I guess. I actually like going there. It is a bit like there is still a part of him around that I can reach.” Which is certainly no less weird than what Lestrade has just explained to him.

 

“That sounds nice,” Greg says. He sounds so wistful and yearning that John resolves to take him to the graveyard the next chance he gets.


	6. Walls and sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade says good-bye to his and Sherlock's past and discovers John waiting for him in the present.

John shows up on Lestrade's doorstep on a Sunday afternoon, carrying some flowers. When Lestrade looks at them in surprise John waves the bunch dismissively.

 

“Sorry, not for you. We're going on a little trip.” Lestrade gives him a shrewd look and John is pretty sure he knows exactly where they are going, but Lestrade still pretends it's a surprise when they end up at the entrance to the graveyard.

 

John looks at him intently as they stand on the street corner right outside the wrought iron gates and says: “You don't have to go in there, you know. Just – maybe the reason you haven't been yet is that you'd rather not go alone.” He shrugs. “But if you want to, you can wait outside and I'll just put these down and then we can go back to your place for tea or something.”

 

The look on Lestrade's face is hard to read but John is fairly certain that he sees gratitude there, maybe mixed with a bit of trepidation and a lot of sadness.

 

Lestrade clears his throat and his voice sounds a little thick when he says: “No, you're right. It's probably a good idea. And I'd like....would you come in with me?”

 

He looks unsure and hesitant and John would like nothing better than to close the distance between them and kiss all that hesitancy right off Greg's face. But he just nods and walks through the gate.

 

At some point, as they are crunching along the gravel paths through the old and weathered part of the graveyard, Greg's hand slips into John's. John doesn't say a thing and he doesn't look at Greg either, but he grips his hand tightly and that is how they end up at Sherlock's grave: hand in hand.

 

They stand there for a while and then John gently pulls away and kneels to put the flowers into the vase by the side of the stone.

 

When he gets back up Lestrade looks at him apologetically and asks: “Would you mind giving me a minute? I just need to be alone with my thoughts for a while. With him.” At that last word his voice almost breaks and John nods quickly and walks away, towards the old wall of honey coloured stones that encircle the graveyard.

 

 

Greg stands there for a long time looking at the gravestone. John had said that visiting the grave helped him, that it was a little like visiting Sherlock.

 

Greg can't really see the resemblance: He keeps waiting for the sarcastic comment, for a sneer at the state of his divorce, for a put-down of his fumbling slowness at deducing those around him. The stone is obstinately silent.

 

He crosses his arms over his chest and closes his eyes. He thinks of Sherlock as he used to be, a skinny kid living in a dump of a flat, off his head on illegal drugs most times Greg saw him. He thinks of Sherlock after his brother had finally forced him into rehab; the desperately bored but fiercely sober young man who had shown up in his office one night begging for work.

 

“ _I swear, Lestrade, if you don't have anything interesting to solve I will either start using again or kill my brother. As the latter would most likely result in the collapse of the British government, I assure you you will be acting in your own best interest in providing me with a case to work.”_

 

Greg had given him a number of unsolved cases from the 1960s and kept a close eye on him.

 

The last time he'd let Sherlock near one of his crime scenes before that, he had correctly deduced the murderer and then gone off to arrest the bloke by himself, high on cocaine and confidence. Nearly got himself killed. After that Lestrade had sworn not to let him set foot near a live investigation unless he was certain that Sherlock wasn't using anymore.

 

He rubs a hand over his forehead and thinks of Sherlock's clumsy attempts at flirting, of his desperately blunt propositions. At his jealousy for Annie.

 

“ _I don't understand why you would need a wife, it is so very obvious that you prefer men.”_

 

“ _I love her, Sherlock. And bisexuality does exist, you know.”_

 

“ _How tediously romantic of you. And it's not going to work. You have been married five years and she's still worried you'll leave her, if the right man comes along.”_

 

“ _This conversation is over, Sherlock!”_

 

He still feels a little guilty about all those times he had to tell Sherlock “no”. As if Sherlock had given up dating out of disappointment at not getting his way with Greg. He knows how unlikely that is, how grandiose it sounds but the guilt is hard to shake.

 

God, he misses the insufferable git. He misses his brilliant mind and his stupidly posh voice and his utter inability to understand his own emotions. He misses him so much it hurts but there is no going back. Done is done. He stares at the reflective surface of the tombstones for long moments, forcing back the tears that have crawled up and formed a tight knot in his throat. This really is the end, then. A deep breath rushes out of him, and he can feel the tension drain away, his shoulders relaxing for the first time since that moment in the morgue. The deep underlying sadness is still there but he feels a little lighter all the same.

 

He reaches out to pat the smooth surface of the headstone and says: “Cheerio, mate. I'm glad I knew you.”

 

Then he looks over to John, who is leaning against the wall on the other side of the graveyard, face tilted up to the sun, eyes closed. He is beautiful in the sunlight, his hair golden and his posture quietly confident. He is here. He is alive. And he is utterly compelling.

 

Greg straightens his shoulders and starts walking over, thinking that at least Sherlock provided for those closest to him, after a fashion. It is a maudlin, whimsical thought and Sherlock himself would scoff at the very notion, but it makes him smile.

 

 

John opens his eyes as he hears Greg's footsteps approaching. Greg is wearing a melancholic little smile and looks at him with such fondness that John feels himself blush faintly.

 

He comes to a halt next to John and leans against the wall with him.

 

They stand there for a bit, looking up at the blue sky, drinking in the quiet and the sunlight and the bird song.

 

“What are you thinking about?” John asks after a while.

 

Greg shrugs. “Oh, this and that.” He rubs a thumb over his left eyebrow. “How I met Sherlock when he was 25 and thin as a bean pole. Also tripping balls.”

 

John laughs softly. “I have to admit I am rather glad I never actually saw him on drugs. He was enough to handle sober.”

 

Greg snorts. “Oh, you have no idea. He kept calling me at all hours of the night, whenever a new deduction hit. And he used to hit on me even though I was already married. In front of my wife. It was bloody awkward.”

 

John considers this for a moment. He is pretty sure Lestrade is telling him this for a reason and John has to admit that it stings a little. So Mr-married-to-my-work hadn't always been so single minded. He is pretty sure Greg isn't just boasting to him, though; rather letting him know relevant background information. He is a little tense next to John. Is he expecting John to throw a jealous hissy fit and walk away? Not bloody likely.

 

“What did you say?” he asks instead, because he is curious, damn him.

 

“What do you think? I told him no. A lot.” Lestrade shakes his head, a little amused and a little regretful.

 

God, John can't imagine having the self-control to turn Sherlock down if he was actually making a pass at him. His respect for Lestrade ratchets up another couple of notches.

 

“Did you fancy him, though?” John can't help but ask, tilting his head and looking at Greg.

 

Greg snorts and turns around to face him. “Have you seen the man? And he's brilliant. Brilliant is bloody sexy. Of course I fancied him rotten.” Greg looks apologetic.

 

John laughs. “You sound like Irene Adler, you know? 'Brainy is the new sexy?'”

 

Lestrade shrugs. “I sound like a gorgeous woman who really knows how to handle a riding crop? I'm gonna take that as a compliment. Plus, she's right, you know.”

 

“Preaching to the choir here, mate. He made me re-think my sexuality.”

 

“Yes, but you only considered yourself straight because you somehow convinced yourself that hand-jobs in the army don't count.”

 

“Oh, will you shut up about that already?”

 

“Why don't you make me?”

 

Greg's grin is both lascivious and mocking and John simply has to step forward, press him against the rough surface of the wall and kiss him silly in the warm sunlight.

 

When they come back up for air, Greg's expression has turned delighted and thoughtful, and John is pretty sure that he himself looks dishevelled and more than a little aroused.

 

“Well,” Greg says, “that clears things up a bit then.”

 

“Clears things up?” John asks suspiciously.

 

“Thought you only kissed blokes when you're desperate or drunk. Or both.”

 

John gapes at him for a moment, taking a step back in astonishment. “You really thought that was what was going on? You fucking arsehole!”

 

Greg lifts his hands up in a placating fashion. “Calm down, mate! I didn't really have a lot to go on, did I? You never gave any indication you were interested. In fact you told everyone and their mum how straight you were, and then, suddenly when you're half out of your mind with grief and off your tits you start snogging me. Only to tell me the next morning that you most definitely aren't gay, no, absolutely not. What the fuck was I supposed to think, then?”

 

John winces in embarrassment and finds himself unable to look Greg in the face for a moment. “Shit. I'm sorry, Greg. That was bloody stupid. I – I guess I was just a little confused. I needed some time to think about things.”

 

He looks back up again and Greg's face has relaxed a little. He nods. “Yeah, I get it.”

 

John takes a step forward again, crowding into Greg's space. There is something here he needs to clarify. “You didn't honestly believe that I only slept with you because I was drunk, did you? I mean, you must have some inkling of how bloody attractive you are?”

 

Greg blushes, which is frankly endearing. He looks away and rubs a hand over his head. “I am ten years older than you, John. I think we both know my prime's past.” He shrugs. “It's OK. I actually don't mind.”

 

John just gapes at him. “Are you fucking serious? Do you maybe need a new mirror? Or glasses or something? Because, take it from me, Greg, the man who thought he didn't fancy blokes: You are so hot it's a little indecent.”

 

Greg just looks at him for a long moment and then says in a husky voice: “I really need to kiss you now.”

 

“Oh God, yes.”

 

The old graveyard wall hasn't seen so much action since a stable boy and a kitchen maid had met in its shadow every Wednesday afternoon a hundred years ago. Insofar as it is possible for walls to feel anything, it feels well pleased.


	7. No going home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There is something morbidly fascinating in contemplating his own grave, not in an abstract fashion but by visiting the actual spot. It is strangely freeing to be thought dead: There are no more expectations to disappoint, no more mistakes to make._
> 
> _He is about to turn around and start the next leg of his journey when he sees two familiar figures approach the grave hand in hand. He quickly melts back into the uneven shadows of the hedge and watches as John and Lestrade come to a halt in front of the polished stone._
> 
> Sherlock POV.

Sherlock's mind is racing as he stares at the ceiling of his old bedroom,1 calculating where exactly he will start to dismantle Moriarty's organisation.

 

There is an easy solution, of course, there always is. Mycroft's men2 could take out the three guns aimed at John, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade in the blink of an eye and they could all work together to take down the rest of the consulting criminal enterprise. But Moran is still there in the background, pulling the strings, and he will most likely try to avenge Moriarty.

 

Sherlock is done being played, as amusing as it was to have a worthy opponent for once, and is determined to eradicate all traces of Moriarty's little empire. There will be no more of the kind of surprises that make his heart stop in his chest;3 that make his _brain_ stop for one intolerable quarter second. Nobody will ever scare John this way again, nobody else will ever put the look on his face he had at the graveyard when he – but no. Sherlock sternly tells himself to stop this train of thought right there. Emotions are of no use to him right now.

 

He must endeavour to kill Moriarty's loyal followers – _Moran_ 's loyal followers, now – without anyone finding out. He is still only 98% sure that he knows about all the ways in which Moriarty had managed to make use of state and private surveillance networks and, even though he has changed his appearance as much as he was able to at such short notice, the risk of being recognised is too great.

 

He runs a hand over his newly shorn head, the short, ginger hairs tickling his palm with their newly smooth ends, and decides that it will be easiest to start at the drug-running end of the operation.

 

 

Two months later he has successfully instigated a narco gang war between Moriarty's producers and distributors and three rival gangs, to the point that the conflict is already making the headlines and diverting resources from other parts of the organisation in a satisfying manner. He can't suppress the feeling of grim delight that wells up in him as he sits in his dingy bed-sit and studies Lestrade's picture under the headline. Of course Mycroft had kept him informed on the progress of the internal hearings, but it was still obscurely cheering to know that somebody competent was around again to pick up the pieces of his artfully wrought destruction.

 

He closes the newspaper with a sigh and gets up to root through the tiny refrigerator in the corner, assembling a cheese sandwich. It is galling that his prospective memory is cluttered up again by reminders to eat and sleep in depressingly regular intervals. It had been eminently practical to source these things out to John so that his own cognitive resources could be fully devoted to contemplating more important things. He tells himself that this is the reason John appears in his thoughts with unsettling regularity. That his brain has somehow managed to attach the cluster of memories and sensory impressions that comprise _John_ to the mechanism that makes sure he doesn't incapacitate his body by ignoring its demands. It doesn't help.

 

 

He is standing in the shadow of an taxus hedge4, hidden behind its evergreen needles and deadly red berries, looking at his tombstone. There is something morbidly fascinating in contemplating his own grave, not in an abstract fashion but by visiting the actual spot. It is strangely freeing to be thought dead: There are no more expectations to disappoint, no more mistakes to make.

 

He is about to turn around and start the next leg of his journey when he sees two familiar figures approach the grave hand in hand. He quickly melts back into the uneven shadows of the hedge and watches as John and Lestrade come to a halt in front of the polished stone.

 

After a moment John puts down some flowers5 and then turns around and leaves Lestrade alone, heading over to the low wall that encircles the graveyard. Lestrade stands in front of Sherlock's grave for a while, not saying anything.

 

Sherlock in his hiding spot is grateful for Greg’s silence; overhearing John in his heartbreakingly one-sided conversation had been torture enough.

 

After a couple of minutes Lestrade reaches out to touch the stone and says: “Cheerio, mate. I'm glad I knew you.” His voice sounds rough, as if he hadn't been getting enough sleep, and Sherlock suddenly realises that he will not hear Lestrade speak again for a long while. Something clenches in his stomach at that thought, as if Lestrade tugged at some invisible line by walking away. Utter nonsense, of course. Still, he stays where he is, watching Lestrade decisively turn around and walk over to where John is sunbathing against the wall6, settling in next to him.

 

Sherlock watches as John says something and Lestrade laughs and answers him. They talk and have what looks like an argument except for how their body language is missing any traces of real aggression or anger. Lestrade suddenly blushes and looks away – Sherlock assumes it is at whatever compliment John just paid him – and then he looks back at John with such heat and affection that Sherlock thinks he should not be seeing this. Discretion has never been one of his strengths, however, and so he continues to observe.

 

He sees Lestrade take a step forward, pressing John against the graveyard wall7. He sees John's eyes close and his head tilts up and then they are kissing8, their movements betraying both intimacy and arousal.

 

Sherlock finds himself rooted to the spot by an unfamiliar emotion and has to sort through his internal database for a moment before he realises that it is jealousy. He isn't entirely sure9 if he is jealous of John – never in all the years he has known the man has Lestrade looked at him with this kind of open longing and desire – or of Lestrade, who gets to touch _John_ , who gets to press him against a wall and to make him open his mouth and fist a hand in his shirt and - he huffs through his nose in a frustrated sound and shakes his head a little to clear it. This is ridiculous! The pain of somebody touching what is _his_ , of having what he cannot, is undignified and primitive. Will he next start marking the boundaries of his territory by urinating in strategic spots?

 

The emotion, however, stubbornly remains, taking no notice of his outraged intellect. It is joined almost immediately by a second one, one that is intimately familiar to him from his days as an addict: craving. He turns the feeling over in his mind for a second and realises that what he desires more than anything at this moment is not to charge in and claim either John or Lestrade as his exclusive property but to be there with them. There is a burning pull in the vicinity of his heart that is urging him to step out from the shadows and cross the 50 meters between them, to insert himself between them, to force them to focus all of that care and attention and desire on _him_.

 

This is intolerable, this childish need to be noticed, this inexplicable feeling of vulnerability. He turns around and leaves for Belgrade.

 

 

 

 

 

Footnotes:

1 painted two weeks ago. Mycroft must have had the whole house redone recently, two years ahead of schedule, but Mycroft could be annoyingly prissy that way.

2 And women. There was a delightfully terrifying young woman in the last batch of new henchpeople.

3 He had always regarded this expression as typical artistic licence until the moment John stepped out onto the tiled floor of the swimming pool wearing Semtex.

4 50 years old, last trimmed in spring by an apprentice gardener who had just acquire his first set of (cheap) tools.

5 _ Helianthus annuus _ , an unconventional choice.

6 Looking content and very handsome, a part of Sherlock's mind can't help but notice.

7 Stones reused from the first church after it collapsed due to imprecise structural analysis.

8 Most definitely not for the first time, a little voice at the back of his head comments.

9 He hates emotions and the forceful, imprecise mental re-directions they cause.


	8. Interlude II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Lestrade share memories and regrets.

“So, wait,” John says. “You and your wife had an open relationship and she was fine with you sleeping with other guys but you still turned Sherlock down when he repeatedly propositioned you?”

 

The unspoken “are you a fucking idiot?” is so loud and clear that Greg winces.

 

He turns around a little from where he is leaning against John's chest on the couch so that he can see his face as he tries to explain. “Believe me, I wanted to. But it would have been a spectacularly bad idea for a number of reasons, only one of which was that I don't sleep with people who don't respect my primary partner.”

 

There is something almost like awe in John's gaze that he knows is utterly undeserved and so he quickly continues.

 

“Also, at that time he needed somebody not giving in to him more than he needed a lover.”

 

He grimaces in frustration, unable to articulate exactly what he had known to be irrevocably true at the time: That Sherlock needed him to be the stubborn rock against which he could smash himself, over and over again. Who wouldn't give in, no matter how often he was asked and seduced and coerced but who would also refuse to disappear and leave Sherlock to his drugs and too sharp mind which was cutting itself into pieces.

 

John seems to understand anyway. “He needed you to tell him no,” he says thoughtfully and pulls Greg back against his chest.

 

Greg relaxes into him with a relieved sigh. “Exactly. Over and over again. It wasn't pleasant, I can tell you that.”

 

John chuckles near his ear. “I can imagine.”

 

Greg knows he did the right thing all these years back, that their continued working relationship, abrasive as it was, was a testament to the fact that he had earned Sherlock Holmes' respect in the end, if nothing else. He still can't help the stab of regret, however, the realisation that he had waited too long and that “No” had already turned into “Never”.

 

“What are you thinking about?” John's voice is soft in his ear, his breath warm against the side of his head. Greg threads his fingers through John's where they are resting on his stomach and squeezes slightly. It feels good to be able to talk about this, finally, with somebody who understands. Who loved the mad bastard just as much as Greg did.

 

“I sometimes wish I had had an opportunity to tell him...” he leans his head back against John's shoulder and closes his eyes for a moment, “...to tell him that I wasn't rejecting him out of spite. I should have told him that I - that I loved him and damn the consequences!” The last bit comes out a tad more forceful than he intended but John only tightens his arms fractionally around him and holds on.

 

“Yes, me too.” He says after a moment, his voice mirroring Greg's own ruefulness and pain.

 

They sit there in the twilight for a long time, the room darkening gradually around them, thinking of lost chances, regret mixing with grief.


	9. Men in exile feed on dreams of hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock dreams.

Sherlock dreams. 

It is a process he has always found slightly distasteful because of its irrationality and dubious efficiency. It seems as if there should be a more economic way for his brain to digest, fragment and store the day's information than through a process involving hour-long hallucinations and completely pointless excitations of the limbic system. But he has resigned himself to the fact that, a number of experiments with lucid dreaming notwithstanding, this is an aspect of his neurological function he seems unable to control and must simply endure.

  
  


  
  


  
  


In Caltagirone, he dreams of Mrs Hudson. 

After a day of hunting down Moriarty's connections to the Mafia he has trouble falling asleep in the small, drafty room he is staying in. When he finally drifts off, he realises to his surprise that he isn't in Sicily at all: Instead he is standing in Mrs Hudson's kitchen, the warm light of an early sunset filling the room. Mrs Hudson is busy at the stove, stirring what looks like her famous mulligatawny soup. 

  
  


She looks at him over her shoulder and doesn't seem in the least surprised at his presence.

  
  


“ Ah, Sherlock dear, would you mind setting the table? Supper is almost ready.”

  
  


He walks over to the cupboard and takes out the soup plates like he has done a hundred times before, and they sit down and eat like they used to when he was still living in Montague Street and stopped by occasionally. Mrs Hudson chatters on gaily about the lovers' tiff the next-door neighbours seem to be having again and Sherlock tells her of a wonderful experiment he has just finished which will most likely revolutionise fingerprint analysis.

  
  


He wakes up disoriented but content, the taste of curry still on his tongue.

  
  


  
  


  
  


In Lhasa, he dreams of John.

He has finally managed to eliminate the branch of Moriarty's organisation that specialised in human trafficking, and, in passing, unveiled a plot that would have concluded in China's annexation of Nepal. His head is still throbbing from where a Chinese soldier slammed the butt of his rifle into Sherlock's skull – he had to do the stitches himself – but right now he is full of  _ momo thukpa _ and satisfaction. He falls asleep on the hard surface of his sleeping bench and the sounds of car horns and squealing tires coming in through his window metamorphose into the sounds of traffic outside 221b Baker Street.

  
  


He is sitting on the couch looking up at John, who is seated on the coffee table in front of him. He has his doctor's kit open and is holding a bottle of saline solution.

  
  


“ Right,” John says, “you may want to close your eyes now. I'm going to clean this and then we can sew you up proper.” 

  
  


He wears the look of intense concentration he always has when he is ministering to Sherlock's wounds, and Sherlock can feel himself relax under this professional and competent scrutiny. He closes his eyes and holds very, very still as John carefully rinses the gash on his forehead. When the wound is sufficiently clean, John takes out a needle and some surgical thread. 

  
  


“Good,” he says, “don't move, OK? I don't think you're the kind of bloke who gets a kick out of having a prominent scar on your forehead.”

  
  


Sherlock keeps his eyes open this time, watching the muscles move under John's T-shirt as he carefully tugs closed knot after knot. The weather is warm and there is a trickle of sweat running down John's tanned skin. Sherlock has to stop himself from leaning forward and lapping at it with his tongue. He wants to touch John, feel his smooth skin, taste him, look at him for hours. But somehow he knows he has no time, that he is in a rush and will have to be gone as soon as this simple procedure is finished. Thanks to the local anaesthetic the whole process is relatively painless and John's hands are sure but gentle, and so he simply lets himself bask in the feeling of being taken care of, feeling unaccountably safe.

  
  


When he wakes up the throbbing in his head seems to have lessened but to his surprise his face is wet with tears.

  
  


  
  


  
  


In Berlin, he dreams of Lestrade.

The whole day has been an agony of humidity and heat, sweat dripping into his eyes and soaking his clothes as soon as he changed them. People hadn't stopped commenting on how unusual the weather was and how everybody was hoping for a thunderstorm to break the tension. He had felt languid and slow, not at all in the right mood to destroy Moran's carefully crafted relationship with the heads of the more illegal subdivision of Germany's Neo-Nazi movement. Now, he spends hours fitfully tossing and turning, desperately trying to find a spot on the sheets that is cold enough to allow him to fall asleep when the weather finally breaks. He lies there for a while, listening to the claps of thunder echoing in the rear courtyard his window is facing and to the sounds of the rain beating down, drawing him under.

  
  


He is standing in Lestrade's kitchen in the old apartment Lestrade had lived in before he married Annie. Lestrade is facing him, hands on his hips, looking tired and worn out in the grey light of a hazy sunrise that promises rain for later. He is as beautiful as ever, his face warm and open, even as his brow is creased in disappointment, his brown eyes fixed intently on Sherlock. 

  
  


“ Well then,” he says, “I am still waiting for that explanation, Sherlock.”

  
  


Sherlock opens his mouth and he wants to say a thousand things, wants to justify and explain, even though he has no idea what his transgression has been this time. Instead, the only thing that he finds he is able to say over and over again is:

  
  


“ I'm sorry, Greg. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

  
  


He longs to cross the distance between them, to do what he has wanted to do a thousand times before, to lean forward and capture Lestrade's lips with his own, to feel that perfect mouth against his, to rub his cheek along the line of stubble on his jaw. But this he is not allowed to do, this is the one line he must not cross.

  
  


He startles himself awake this time, shooting bolt upright with a defeated groan and then has to take a long, warm shower to shake the feeling of guilt and frustration that has settled into his stomach like wet clay.

  
  


  
  


  
  


As it happens again (Molly, Milano) and again (Mycroft, Budapest) he concludes that his brain simply misses basic social stimulation and is consequently simulating interactions with the most readily available memories. It is a little disturbing, particularly because these dreams tend to be extremely vivid, and it always takes him an extra second to orient himself after waking up, but he comes to expect and even crave them. They are, after all, the only connection he still has to those he left behind.

  
  


  
  


  
  


Sometimes, when he can't sleep and absolutely has to to ensure optimal neural functioning, he wraps himself tightly in a soft blanket that he bought in Belgrade. It is soft and oatmeal coloured and sometimes he admits to himself that its pattern reminds him a little of John's favourite jumper. He pulls the blanket tightly around him so that it swaddles him entirely1 and goes to sleep. On those nights he doesn't dream and he always finds that his mind is particularly clear and quick on the mornings after. He doesn't allow himself this luxury too often because in his current situation he simply cannot afford to become too dependant on any one thing. Instead, most nights he puts himself to sleep for the required 4 hours using the technique he has developed for himself long ago: He selects a piece of music that is still giving him trouble or that he enjoys especially2 and runs through it in his head, starting over as soon as his imaginary fingers make the slightest mistake. The repetition calms him and shuts out the outside world almost as completely as the actual playing always has, but the sleep is nowhere near as restful.

 

 

 

 

1 No substitute for strong arms holding him down, pinning him, but it will have to do.

2 For some reason he seems stuck on old favourites by Sarasate while on the run. It is a tad embarrassing but it isn't as if anyone can hear his entirely imaginary practice sessions anyway, so he tries not to think about it too much.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Adventure of the Resurrected Lover](https://archiveofourown.org/works/556583) by [azriona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona)




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